The Creeping Death

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A DOUBLE row of taxicabs and automobiles came to a stop on the street in front of the Metrolite Hotel. Motors roared and horns honked as impatient drivers waited for the Broadway traffic to clear. They were in the midst of one of the heavy jams that nightly congest the streets of Manhattan.

In one cab, a man leaned forward into the front seat and spoke to the driver. He was terse in his tone as he held out a dollar bill and gave an order.

“This is close enough,” he said. “Let me out here. I’ll walk over to the hotel.”

The driver accepted the money; the passenger left the cab and threaded his way among the halted vehicles until he reached the sidewalk near the Metrolite Hotel. With quick strides he completed the last yards of his short trip, and entered the revolving door.

The Metrolite Hotel was one of Manhattan’s newest and most popular hostelries that specialized in moderate rates. Its lobby, although not large, was elegantly furnished, and constantly frequented by the guests. The arrival of one individual was nothing to excite particular interest.

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